A Message from the Angel
by Genevievey
Summary: Peter recieves a message which lifts a burden from his shoulders, a burden we all agree he doesn't deserve. Occurs somewhere early in Series 3, replacing the events of "The Reckoning".


_AUTHOR'S NOTE:_ _This is an unusual sort of fic (for me especially) in that it's a bit heavier than my other writing. It just wouldn't get out of my head, so I wrote it, and I'm still not quite sure what I think of it, but I'm posting it anyway. It's my way of displaying how I feel about Father Peter's position, as well as a homage to his wonderful and tragic character. I've said in the past that I don't like tampering with the original author's intention, but it looks like I'm going to have to eat my words, because here I've written an alternative to 'the Reckoning' (or rather, this occurs near the beginning of Series 3, so that 'the Reckoning' and the preceeding events don't occur at all).  
My excuse? That both Peter Clifford and Assumpta Fitzgerald are deep and tragic characters, who need and deserve each other.  
So, excuse me, Mr. Prendiville._

_And of course, I don't own "Ballykissangel", or these characters. Please read & review!_

**  
A Message from the Angel**

Not far from _Baile Coisc Aingeal_, in the glorious vale of Avoca, lies a place called 'the meeting of the waters'. Thomas Moore wrote of its beauty many years ago. Indeed, a meeting, a joining, is a beautiful thing; and there is an abundance of meetings of all kinds in this valley. Here, just as two rivers meet and merge, becoming as inextricably entwined as a Celtic knot, the earthly meets the heavenly…what has come before meets what may yet be…religion and culture are entwined…And angels will sometimes fall. But angels know that when two opposing rivers meet, they can flow on stronger than before.

See there, on the banks of the river Angel, in the afternoon sun, there stands a man. There is something in his stature, in his air, by which one can tell he is a very good man. Look closer, and you will see that although he fights to keep it from showing, he is troubled. This is not surprising in the least, considering his position.

From a foreign land he came, to be a Father for any who needed him. He chose to be marked off as a separate being; wise, benevolent, willing to help shoulder some of every man's load. And how many loads has this one man lightened? But however benevolent a man may be, can he—should he—bear so many crosses, all the while adding to his own?

* * *

Peter strolled aimlessly along the riverbank, feeling the afternoon sun on his shoulders, but it did not give him much warmth. He usually found the river's murmurings soothing, a reminder of the Creator's gentleness…but not today.

He tried, how he tried! An ongoing battle for three years. But he felt like he was wandering blind; how was he to know what the Lord intended? Was it a test of his strength, or could it possibly be a disguised blessing he ought to accept? It sure felt like a test, a test of Olympic proportions; every time he thought he was resolved, there she was again. Damn it, what was he supposed to do? He wasn't sure he could go on fighting much longer.

With a heavy sigh, Father Peter sat down on the river bank, staring into the water as it flowed by steadily—as steadily as his own life was passing him by. But he needed this solitary time to sit and think. The river before him seemed so very alive; flowing on as it had for centuries past, a continuous thread through the land. Peter wished that he could feel so alive…but he seemed to feel increasingly alike to the cold stone walls that so often surrounded him. He loved that church, its sacred beauty…but he also loved this green vale, and recognised sacredness in the gentle breeze, golden glow of the sun (and the pouring rain, more commonly). Sometimes there did not seem to be so much difference between what was earthly and what was heavenly…if only he could find a life between the two. Massaging his brow, Peter closed his eyes.

The gentle murmuring of the river was all he knew, then he felt something that made him open his eyes. Blinking, he gazed into the water's depths. And he seemed to hear a voice.

_I am the River Angel, I have seen many things in the countless days I have flown through this land. Triumphs and sorrows, greed and selflessness, great love and great heartbreak. I have seen enough of humankind that little surprises me anymore; I know that people are capable of great evil, and equally of great goodness. And when I see you, I am reminded of this human capacity for goodness._

_Many others have stood within those ancient walls before you; most have been good, but hardly one so much as you. The lives you have touched, the difference you have made to so many people in this valley, is remarkable. Every day you show great compassion and love to your fellow man; and to love others, to touch their lives, is an act both human and divine._

I have seen you struggle against yearnings for a life _**lived**__. I bid you know that these feelings are what make you human; it cannot be wrong to feel. For the good you have done others, you have earned reward—both earthly and heavenly—twenty times over. And I bid you know that to touch people's hearts, you need not lock up your own inside stone walls and vestments—though neither need you forsake them entirely. Indeed, if you have done good by giving a little of your time and your friendship to others, does it not follow that to give your life and your heart to one special person is an act even greater than this? You do not have to cut yourself off from one of the richest experiences that life has to offer. You __**were**__ called to father those for whom you care, but there is more than one way to be a Father…You, Peter, have a great capacity to love._

_It has been your struggle, and ultimately it is for you to decide, but I pray that you shall find a balance between the things of the spirit and things of the earth, for combined from these is Life.  
And as you said yourself, good Father, 'a man who fears Love, fears Life'._

Peter was speechless, he didn't know whether to trust his own senses. The very occurrence of such a message was incredible, quite apart from its overpowering contents. This was surely a product of his desperate imagination conjuring what he wanted to hear; could the Lord really be so understanding?

_Oh come now Peter, this is 'the town of the banished angel'; we don't all have our heads in the clouds…_

The curate, still stunned, found himself chuckling. An amiable angel?

Still laughing, Peter felt something tickle his nose, and the next thing he knew he was laying on the riverbank, but the voice had gone…instead, a great hairy dog was licking his nose. He jumped in surprise, and pushed Fionn away, sitting up groggily. He'd been asleep? But it had all seemed so real…

Looking up, he nearly jumped again when he found the canine's mistress smiling down at him. Seeing her now, with the angel's message still ringing in his ears…well, he had a lot to think about…  
"Assumpta…Hello…"  
"Hello yourself, Sleeping Beauty," she grinned, taking Fionn by the collar, "worked to the point of exhaustion, are ye?"  
He laughed, rubbing his face in an attempt to wake himself up. "I have been a bit tired lately. Feeling sort of better now, though."  
"Well I'm glad to hear it," nodded the publican, stepping back to give him room to stand, "but might I suggest an actual bed next time, eh?"  
"If you say so," Peter murmured, unable to think clearly such a decision to make, and Assumpta before him, just glowing in the afternoon sun. She noticed that he was out of sorts, and turning to him, said, "Peter, are you alright? You seem…distant. Not that it's any of my business, but…"  
He shook his head, with an appreciative gaze. "I'm fine, just got a few things to think over. Actually, I'd best be getting back to St. Joseph's, but I'll see you later, okay?"  
"Fine," Assumpta nodded, stroking Fionn's coat as she watched the man go.

* * *

  
When Ambrose had assumed that a falling statue of St. John the Evangelist meant that he had a vocation, Peter had felt sure that the young policeman was wrong. As well as being a man of faith, Peter was also a logical one, and so he did his best not to leap to conclusions about his apparent message. It was possible that his own mind had produced the dream, in an attempt to mitigate the action he inwardly longed to take. But from the hours of thought that Peter spent both in St. Joseph's and in the surrounding countryside, he came to a firm conclusion: whether those had been the words of an angel, or of his inner self, they were words of truth.

How could it be a sin to love? To long to reach out to another human being and bind your life with their own, by which improving both?

Eventually, Peter felt completely assured that his decision was the right one. When he felt brave enough, he finally had an open discussion with the woman concerned—the most difficult and most rewarding confession of his life...

Assumpta Fitzgerald sighed as she locked up her pub. She stared for a moment at the closed door, then leapt into action once more, unlocking the door and stepping out into the evening. She felt the need for some fresh air.

She was halfway across the bridge, when she heard quickened footsteps behind her. Turning, she found Peter catching her up, with a seemingly nervous smile.  
"Hiya," he said, falling into step with her. Assumpta smiled, and they set off together. The silence between them was awkward, and seemed much longer than the few minutes it was in reality.

Finally, Peter said, "Look, Assumpta…can we talk?"  
The woman nodded, taking a deep breath, all the while furiously willing herself not to get her hopes up. Just because he'd been deep in thought lately didn't mean that he was going to do anything about it. "Sure. Of course."  
"Good. Uh, where to start…Well, I hope you'll know what I mean when I say that there are certain things we've never talked about; we've—I've developed a talent for skirting around conversations and talking in double-meanings…You understand?"  
Assumpta nodded, holding her breath. There could be no doubt now about what he meant—she wasn't just thinking wishfully. She could hardly focus on putting one foot in front of another; her only comfort was that he seemed equally affected.  
"Well, I've been doing some thinking, and I've reached the conclusion that…I'm going to have to leave the priesthood."  
Assumpta stopped short, scarcely able to believe her ears. Was he serious? And if he was, what did that mean for her? For…them?

"Peter," she breathed, "Are…Are you sure?"  
He nodded, letting out a deep breath. "I've thought it over a million times, and I'm sure. And, I needed to tell you, because, well…I hope you know why."  
The woman dropped her gaze, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable, and she muttered, "And how would I know that?"  
"Assumpta, are you serious?"  
As Peter declared that he thought of her every minute, that she kept him awake at night, she could only stare. To have him speak of his feelings so openly, after three years of pulling back…But finally he too found the honesty a little too much, and quipped, "Apart from that, you mean nothing to me."  
Assumpta was too stunned even to smile at his sweet banter. His own smile faded, and he began to look worried.  
"But, I may have jumped to a conclusion here…You may not give a toss whether I stay a priest, or—"  
"Peter," she interrupted, with an unusually tender smile, "are you serious?"  
The man could not hide the unabashed joy that lit his face as soon as he understood her, and Assumpta's own smile broadened. Peter couldn't recall ever seeing her so…honest, so open. There was no mask of sarcasm.  
"Is this really happening?"  
Her mouth curved into a smile that showed she felt the same. "Better be."

Suddenly remembering that they stood conspicuously halfway across the bridge, Peter gestured for them to walk on, and as the two of them wandered aimlessly they bantered just as before, but now with new layers of meaning and tender smiles. But however giddy they felt, the soon-to-be-ex-priest and the publican had a lot of serious matters to work through.

"So, have you told Father Mac yet?"  
"Not yet," Peter sighed, "Tomorrow I'll go to him. He won't make it easy, I know, but…well, perhaps he'll be glad to be rid of me. Whatever happens, it'll be worth it in the end."  
Assumpta raised an eyebrow in mock-scepticism, though inwardly flattered that he felt that way. "And it won't just be Father Mac who'll make things difficult…God, why did it have to be this way?"  
Peter half-chuckled and heaved a sigh, and when she realized that he could have taken that the wrong way, she added, "I mean, why did you have to be so…wonderful?"  
The man grinned at her adoringly. "I could ask you that yourself."

Looking about the beautiful countryside, now entirely blanketed by darkness, Peter sighed, "I suppose we should head back." Assumpta didn't quite manage to hide her disappointment, and he smiled, taking her hands. Neither knew quite what to say, instead gazing into each other's eyes and relishing the feeling of the other's hands in their own.

"Assumpta…I still don't believe this is really happening…but I know what I'm doing. And I…love you."

The woman drew a sharp breath, speechless for a moment. Then, by way of a response, she took a step closer and leaned in. Peter had barely registered what was happening before he felt her lips against his. The kiss was chaste and sweet, the lightest touch; but after three years of longing, just to feel her soft lips brush over his felt heavenly. Assumpta drew back after a moment, averting her eyes demurely (if he was not so affected, Peter would have laughed at the very idea of Miss Fitzgerald looking demure!) He raised her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes, and rested his forehead against hers.

"I hope it doesn't take too long for me to be released from the priesthood," Peter smiled, blushing in spite of himself, and the woman grinned.  
"C'mon, walk me home. The sooner I go to sleep tonight, the sooner it'll be tomorrow. And," she smiled goofily, "tomorrow is the first day of the rest of our lives." He grinned, knowing that although Assumpta was fooling, what she said was true.  
"I don't know about you, but I think I'll be lucky to sleep a wink tonight."

Peter held her hand all the way back to the bridge, and when they said goodnight, two syllables had never held such sweet promise before.

Strolling home, Peter raised his eyes to the heavens, and whispered two words.  
"Thank you."


End file.
